


The 7:30 to Morden

by missdibley



Series: The Red Nose Diaries [102]
Category: British Actor RPF, Tom Hiddleston - Fandom
Genre: 38 lifetimes, 38 lifetimes fic, AU, Angst, F/M, Hopeful Ending, tfl - Freeform, tube station
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-11
Updated: 2019-01-11
Packaged: 2019-10-08 03:44:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17378942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missdibley/pseuds/missdibley
Summary: Tom's early morning commute is made a little brighter by pretty stranger.





	The 7:30 to Morden

_ “Northern Line.” _

There was something in the neutral, robotic announcement of the trains arriving into the station that Tom found soothing. Maybe it was because his fellow commuters were all happy to stare at their phones, barely acknowledging one another as they jockeyed for position. The wind would begin to stream down the tunnel, along the tracks, and there the voice would be.

_ “The next train to… Morden… will arrive in… one minute.” _

The pauses, breaks in the audio, gave away that these announcements were pre-recorded tracks mashed together to be played by an automated system. That there was no young woman or man sitting in an unseen booth, narrating the comings and goings of the tube station in real time.

As Tom wasn’t a regular morning commuter, jogging down to the station, squeezing into the lift, and being jostled by other passengers — this was all novel to him. He recognized it as a fine opportunity for some people-watching, learning gestures and expressions he could use at the early rehearsals that brought him to the station every single morning.

It took only a few days for Tom to recognize the regulars, pick out his favorites. He liked the unfussiness of the brisk middle aged woman who could corral her two school-aged children with little more than a sharp glance. The shuffling professorial gentleman whose shoelaces were always untied reminded him of his favorite tutors.

And then there were the lovebirds. A man and a woman who walked in step, barely touching but clearly together, along the long platform. Matching monogrammed suitcases, sharp suits, patent leather shoes. But while the man was tall and slim with a pale complexion to go with his nearly colorless hair, the woman was short and round, with an olive complexion and a mop of curls as black as her serious eyes. No rings, but to Tom they looked as good as married. Solid. Safe. Secure.

Once he thought they caught them linking their pinkie fingers, a touching gesture that was almost childish. Sweet.

Tom liked to imagine that he was the gentleman, erect and proud as he stood in the middle of a crowded train. Hovering over a love of his own, catching whiffs of her perfume off the back of her neck. Their hips sort of brushing against each other as they stood, side by side, on their way to their respective places of business where they might do a little work while counting down the hours until they saw each other again.

He couldn’t see the woman in her prim suit and her tastefully made up face (scant eyeliner and mascara, a touch of peach blush, raspberry gloss) and not think of how she might look in his bed. Out of her suit, and wrapped in his arms. Biting the tip of her pinkie as she slowly laid back and waited for Tom to join her.

_ “Northern Line.” _

A Friday morning, this one a few weeks into Tom’s commuting. Crowds were light, as it was a bank holiday weekend. He hadn’t seen the lovebirds for two weeks, but wasn’t worried. It was late summer, a time when most people took their summer holiday. He could picture them bicycling along canal paths in France. Healthy, and romantic.

_ “The next train to… Morden… will arrive in… three minutes.” _

The wind blew down the tracks, and a fallen train ticket skittered past Tom’s feet. He plucked it up from the ground, and handed it to the very grateful teenage girl who had been chasing after it. When he stood up again, Tom found himself almost face to face with the woman.

She had been crying. Her eyes were red, and so was the tip of her nose. Rapid breathing made her chest rise and fall, but otherwise she was still.

_ “The next train to… Morden… will arrive in… one minute.” _

Tom was about to ask if she was alright, if he could help her to the bench, call someone for her, when he caught the sight of a man standing a few yards away. The man. Her companion, now standing alongside somebody else. Both wearing suits, though this new woman wore a leather purse over her shoulder and carried no briefcase. She had her hand tucked, safe and secure, in the crook of the man’s right arm.

The wind picked up and Tom could hear the whistle of the train as it drew nearer. The whistle drew the man’s attention, made him look up from his Kindle in time to see the train approach, and Tom standing there. Their eyes met over the red-eyed woman’s shoulder. The man started, jerking a little as if he might approach.

Tom looked down at the woman, whose eyes were now shut. She was close enough that he could feel the heat of her body, see how fine and fragile the fabric of her dark, sensible dress really was. Bringing his hand up, he cupped her jaw. When he did, her eyes blinked open. She wasn’t breathing shallowly anymore, but her lips were parted still. And they parted further when, just as the train arrived, Tom tipped his head down to kiss her.

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be friskier, more fun. Oh well, maybe the next one will be shinier.


End file.
